


Mercyrat Collection

by outbackrat



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Sex, Spanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2018-11-02 11:51:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 2,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10943925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outbackrat/pseuds/outbackrat
Summary: A collection of Mercyrat drabbles, Recall & post-Recall canon continuity.





	1. Drunken Confession

Slumped on the floor, alongside the couch, pulling himself up onto the seat next to Mercy was out of the question. It wasn’t that the junker had been banished to the floor, for reasons like getting sick on her expensive furniture. It had been his conscious decision to stay on the floor, just so he wouldn’t have to look at her. It was a rare occurrence that Junkrat got himself drunk, he was no piss-pot, and rarer still to allow himself to get persuaded by a third party to do the same.

Now, he couldn’t tell whom was at fault; _her,_ or _himself_. Thoughts foggy, objects in the loungeroom had taken on a distinctly blurry overtone, and the very strong smell of alcohol was all that was left of the merlot he had (in all likelihood) helped himself to. When pushed to drunk, Junkrat wasn’t picky.

Shifting around on the rug, only finding the hardwood floor mildly uncomfortable because he had reached the threshold of a drunken sleep, Junkrat was fumbling with what he wanted to say.

Past slurring, to faltering and half-finished sentences, Junkrat gave in to the urge to tilt his head back to watch Mercy’s reaction; relying entirely on the motion of what he could partially see of her, the doctor’s hand and wrist hanging over the side of the couch. Half-curled on his side, using a flung out arm as a pillow, Junkrat’s vision thinned out whilst he watched Mercy’s fingers curl up in response to his first sign of life after he had left the kitchen with the wine bottle, and settled himself here, a trip-hazard.

“I, I’ve been wantin’ to say.. _say_ stuff. I know your busy, an’ all. Big day tomorrow, ‘spect you’ll be, up an’ early. don’t think I can continue, like _this_. I wanna quit, and, stop getting underfoot.”


	2. Acting Strange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mercy had noticed Junkrat had been acting strange.

Staring blankly over his unfinished work, the garage table stained with paint and burn marks, the device was nowhere near looking like anything recognisable. The junker had been trying to busy himself recently with random projects, moving from one to the next, with no set goal in mind. His behaviour had been erratic, his moods subdued, and obviously, Mercy had _noticed_.

The doctor had crept up behind him, ducked under his arm, and turned around to close the gap, leaning against him, front-to-front. Wordlessly, without hesitation, Junkrat leaned down to plant a light kiss on her forehead; hands clasped firmly at the small of her back to briefly lift her onto her toes to shorten the distance. Inclining his head to nuzzle into her hair, his weight heavy resting on top of her head, Junkrat enjoyed the respite she had offered from his thoughts.

Her slight body didn’t add much warmth to his, but the soft outline of her was comforting, all the same.


	3. Heartbeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Night terrors.

  
It was not at all unusual to have your heart rate checked by doctor….. but this wasn’t a scheduled appointment. Or, _standard practice_. Mercy had never in the past had checked his vitals before in this fashion; he’d recogniseed this act as a sign of affection. Mercy’s warm hand pressing down on his chest had woken him up.

“S'ok, I’m not _dead_ ,” the junker had murmured, half to himself. Staring up at the ceiling, glassy-eyed, Junkrat knew he had scared her again - in his sleep.

It was the old nightmare again. He had woken up in a cold sweat, hair plastered to his scalp, chest heaving as he sucked in snatches of breath like a drowning man. The bed sheets were twisted uncomfortably around him, pins-and-needles in his arm caught under his pillow.


	4. Mistle Mistle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Junkrat is cornered under the mistletoe with Mercy, at a Christmas Eve party at headquarters.

Busy gathering what berries he could find ( _for innocent reasons_ ) growing on the bundles of mistletoe strategically hung around the room, after hearing the rumour that they were toxic. The junker had plans for them.

This was no trouble because of his height, to reach them; but it dd take a moment for Junkrat to notice Dr Ziegler standing next to him.

It was a good thing that one hand was actually empty; the plants chosen were a mixed variety of the regular safe and poisonius types, otherwise Mercy wouldn’t have found his flesh hand curled around the nape of her neck.

Pulling her closer, turning to shield her from anybody who was watching under the false pretence that he was arguing with her, he bent down to plant a firm kiss directly on Mercy’s lips.


	5. Risk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One-sentence kiss prompt.

“What the _bloody hell_ is wrong with you?!”

Outside the Talon encampment, obscured by the shelter of the bunker’s entrance, the junker and the medic were sharing a moment to themselves before the remainder of their team had reached the rendezvous area. A glimpse of the Overwatch’s sole doctor had _briefly_ boosted his spirits – that is, until he had a closer look and recognised the gash that had lacerated her shoulder.

With her pinned against the cement bunker’s door, forgetting about the security camera that was recording visual and audio at once, Junkrat’s anger eased off as he cradled her face in his hands. Running the rough calloused pad of his thumb over her bruised cheek, Junkrat bent down to press a firm kiss on a pulse-point under her jaw, supporting the back of her head with his other hand.

Mercy’s pulse was easily felt, it was _fast_ – the fact that she had nearly made a grievous error was continuing to sink in. Easily dwarfing her much smaller, petite body, with the hard outline of his larger frame, Junkrat nuzzled her neck, leaving a patch of soot, breathing hard.

_“You nearly died.”_


	6. Concern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm right here, I promise. I'm not going anywhere."

The harsh reality of it were that in spite of Mercy’s sincere admission, it did _little_ to calm Junkrat straight away.

Brief flashes of the nightmare lingered, determined to override his thinking, before they disappeared to leave him alone to think it over. Oblivious to what his behaviour was like at the peak of the nightmare – _Mercy hadn’t mentioned that_ – he was grateful for it. Ignorant to whatever it was he may have called out, or muttered in his sleep, was the preferable option. Less troublesome that way; less painful. Less questions that didn’t necessarily have answers.

Shifting restlessly, Junkrat had fallen asleep on the couch with his head in her lap, watching her turn the pages of her book, not paying any close attention to what the book was about. Reading or studying, whatever she did on nights like this, how she spent her time did not concern him, so long as it did not attract guests over to visit them.

Junkrat had woken up, startled awake by his dreams, in a cold sweat. His skin felt clammy and hot, his heart hammering in his ears as his pulse raced. Forcing himself to remain listless, quiet, Junkrat could feel his gorge rising. Mercy had restored his morale, although she had no idea what he scared him shitless – not that he did not appreciate her attempts to help.

Abruptly the junker pushed himself up, disentangling himself from under her arms. Inadvertently knocking her book away, Junkrat muttered an apology for leaving her, his goal to reach the nearest sink, his voice shaky, his face colourless.

“’scuse me, gonna be sick -”


	7. Warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mercy and Junkrat cuddling by the fire late one night.

The late-night marathon featuring a weird mix of black-and-white classics with hammer-horror, was a good way to spend a lazy Friday night. The upcoming weekend was planned to be even lazier. With nobody else around, it was just the two of them; Junkrat, and Mercy.

They were seated on the sofa, side-by-side. The lit fireplace was in a corner away from the widescreen television that was facing them directly. The fireplace (a real one, not a trashy electronic illusion gimmick) wasn’t in the prime position, so the heat had a limited reach in the living room. Most of the room remained cold, however not too uncomfortable if the film was interesting enough with snacks on hand.

Lights off, the random flickering light and shadow from the telly’s screen and the fire combined outlined the two prone figures.

Eyes glued to the screen, Junkrat hadn’t truly noticed on a _conscious_ level that Mercy had been gradually migrating across the seats to get closer – the empty cold space by his side was suddenly filled in with the light addition of the doctor’s weight. There was a lull in the film then, explaining the junker’s short attention span shifted to his team mate.

Coincidental or not that Mercy had picked the perfect time to make her move, Junkrat didn’t dwell on it.

Displacing the (now empty) hot-buttered popcorn bowl from his lap to the floor, mindful not to get popcorn grease on anything else. He automatically slid his artificial arm behind Mercy’s back and under her arm in a half lift-drag to pull her over onto his lap. Leaving his arm lazily draped over her waist; absently, Junkrat held his free hand in front of her face, fingers lax.

_“Hey, Mercy…? If ya want something to do, you can always lick the butter off my fingers.”_


	8. Touch-Starved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mercy comforts Junkrat in public.

Lingering behind the bustling crowd, uneasy with the open space that had isolated him from the people, the other Overwatch agents were likewise milling around the edges. Bordering the folk that had gathered to watch and listen to the latest announcement on the large-scale television, their job was to keep the peace – no different from the task assigned to Junkrat.

Apprehensive with the considerable distance the other soldiers often set, which wasn’t personal or tailored just for him, the junker suspected that his station at the back of the group was not unintentional.

It had occurred so many times that it no longer felt like a coincidence – not that he could do anything about it, to protest that singling him out was _unfair_.

Concentrating on the scene, the touch of a gloved hand slowly capturing his left hand in a firm grip broke his focus. Startled, Rat moved to pull his hand free out of the stranger’s; except it was none-other than _Mercy_ , their team medic. She was still looking straight ahead, hadn’t broken eye-contact with the TV, not yet; so Rat silently accepted the gesture, curling his fingers around her smaller hand to squeeze.


	9. Soft & Mysterious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mercy's gift.

After turning the small note over countless times, Junkrat couldn’t get anything more out of it. The small, delicate writing – _cursive_ – **not** unlike a certain doctor’s professional, intelligible handwriting, bore only his name, and the instructions: _I hope this helps._

The junker had found the note pinned to a _pachimari_ plush toy, in the middle of his bed. It was identical to the ones Roadhog used to hoard, and lend him one, with the exception that this was a deluxe edition. With different textures all over it, from the soft plush pile fabric, to the harder tread of the tentacles. He’d often used toys in favour of other materials as de-sensitising objects for residual limb management, but they were hard to come by, back then.

Giving the pachimari a hard test squeeze amounted to nothing from it, and an amused grin from him – that meant no toy squeaker, which was appreciated.

It’d be hard explaining random, prolonged squeaks coming from the two junkers’ quarters in the Overwatch base.


	10. Smack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Punishment courtesy of Angela Ziegler.

Extras like the classic silk scarf for binding were out of the equation – this wasn’t play, this was punishment. Not without the traditional sexual tension down the track, if it did not go too badly, Junkrat’s ego wounded deeper than his physical self. He’d made one (or **three** ) mistakes; accepted them, excuse or no excuse, thought he’d gotten away scot free. That was the _fourth_ , final mistake. There was no chance in Hell Mercy introduced the silks or other props this time.

  
Bent forward with his hands palm down, fingers straight, on the padded table in… of all places, the doctor’s home clinic. The temperature in this room wasn’t as warm as the rest of the house; that _couldn’t_ be the reason Mercy had made the order to present himself here. The junker had supposed it was the domesticity, the professionalism of the office, how unattractive it was in a room reserved for tending wounds and writing scripts. In an environment like the intimacy of the bedroom or the lounge, punishments had layers there. Here, it was awkward, and degrading.

  
The low height of the examination table brought an unexpected benefit for Mercy; their size difference was not always a positive element in their relationship. Partially undressed, his belt unbuckled and dropped to his ankles. Rat’s skin lighter by several shades past the border of his hips, the swift swat to his lifted arse had coloured his skin for a couple of seconds, a vague shape that hadn’t yet (hopefully _never_ , not in _his_ lifetime) mimicked the doctor’s hand.

  
Her open hand, but nonetheless, it still bloody hurt. Rat’s first instinct was to stand up and move, or at the very least, look back to talk, but neither were allowed. _Look straight ahead, don’t move or lift your hands, legs straight, don’t bend your knees._ Focusing on his breathing, growing to hate the medical chart pinned to the wall in front of him, as if it were to blame for his faults and irresponsible self, Rat’s body relaxed a little, the joint of his synthetic leg clicking into place as he adjusted his weight.

  
Forced to rely on behaving and following instructions without the aid of a blindfold or wrist restraints, he had assumed the correct position; without spying how Mercy was dressed. If she was dressed in her medical scrubs or doctor’s coat, he’d rather be left in the dark over that.

  
“ _One_.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Calm dominance.

_“Breathe, just breathe,”_ he repeated, his voice strained into a husky whisper, not altogether too concerned if the doctor could what was said, how long he had been talking to her in reassuring tones. – albeit harried, Angela’s body occasionally roughly jostled whenever the junker jerked his head up to glance over his shoulder, or scrutinise the horizon behind her. The road was empty on either side. The trajectory of the single, high calibre bullet was unknown, yet the distance had made the shot _impressive_.

Junkrat hadn’t been there when Mercy had taken the hit; the bullet hadn’t passed clean through her body, he had guessed, the shock of the wound silencing her in an instant. In the seconds that it took for her distracted companion to turn his head at the distinct sound of the gunshot, thinking it was meant for him, he had seen the discredited doctor freeze, then stumble forward, petals of bright crimson flowering at the back of one shoulder.

The pair had been living as recluses, out of sight and out of mind, following _Overwatch_ disbanding -the schism had been too great. Avoiding a formal dishonourable discharge in her undisclosed discreet way, the former field doctor _Doctor Angela Ziegler_ had taken him in as a _confidant_ , in these dark times. Life had been quiet – a voluntary life of solitude that had caught the attention of _Talon, or so it appeared._ There were other suspects; right now, in the adrenalin combined rush of anger and fear, Junkrat’s focus had tunnel-visioned to concentrate on Mercy’s survival.

Cradling Mercy’s warm body against his own, circling his cold artificial arm around her midsection to support her light weight to ease her off her feet, his flesh arm wrapped tight around her chest, his hand catching her chin to prevent her head from lolling and striking her head on her shoulder or himself before she could collapse. Rat could feel the hammering of her heart through her chest, his forearm prssed firmly into her quickly rising and falling breasts, her pulse racing hard to outpace his own heartbeat.

Stock-still, paralysed, a multitude of frantic thoughts clouded Junkrat’s head. Squeezing her tighter, adjusting his hold to dip his head and breathe out next to her ashen face, the anarchist continued talking low to her, his calm voice belying the hysterics that was bubbling inside.

_“Just breathe.”_

 

 


End file.
